


Water Tells The Tale

by ladyoneill



Series: Lady O's Teen Wolf Bingo Stories [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gunshot Wounds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a pink tinged puddle of water on the floor and that's the last straw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Tells The Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Teen Wolf Bingo, prompt: water for Sheriff (gen). The water is only the catalyst for a Sheriff's going to find out story with implied Derek/Stiles and implied underage. Going with the fanon of John for the Sheriff's name.

It was the puddle in the entryway that was the last straw. If it had simply been water, it could have been explained away--a spilled glass, caught in sprinklers or rain, late night swim--but the water was tinged pink.

He'd been a police officer for over twenty years. He knew what that was.

Someone had tried to clean up blood and done a sloppy job.

While a part of him was panicking, wanting to yell for his son, examine every inch of him to make sure he was okay, the Sheriff was clinically examining the scene and running through all the scenarios, and all the excuses Stiles might come up with. 

Stepping over the puddle, he took the stairs two at a time, noticing a few blood spots on the runner as well, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

Maybe Stiles was really hurt.

John hurried down the hall and flung open his son's door, but the sight before his eyes wasn't Stiles bleeding out on the floor, or sitting on his bed tending to a wound, or even tamping down a nosebleed.

No, his kid was straddling the hips of a shirtless man laying on the bed, and pressing a towel stained red to his shoulder.

Derek Hale.

John hadn't been quiet and Stiles swung his head around to stare at him, mouth agape, brain obviously already working overtime to come up with an excuse why a twenty-three year old former fugitive and always person of interest was half naked and bleeding on his bed, while Stiles was just in his boxer shorts.

He'd suspected all kind of horrible things involving Hale--gangs, drugs, petty crime, hell, even prostitution. Now he was thinking maybe all of the above, and, his gun was out automatically and pointed at Derek's head.

"Dad!" Stiles squawked, flailing his arms, and it looked like the kid was trying to protect his...whatever the Hell Hale was--and it wasn't looking innocent.

Suddenly Derek sat up and Stiles tumbled off the bed, sprawling inelegantly onto the floor, before scrambling to his feet and placing himself firmly between the two men.

"Get out of the way, Stiles," John demanded coldly, lowering his gun only because aiming at his son was never something he wanted to do.

"He didn't do...whatever you think he did!"

"He's bleeding from what looks like a gunshot wound and he's in your bed and you're basically naked. I think he did pretty much everything I think he did."

"You never come into my room this late at night," Stiles whined, trying to deflect, and John just stared at him in frustration.

"You did a crappy job of cleaning up the blood. There's a pool of bloody water in the entryway."

"I figured keeping him from dying was more important!"

"Calling me, Hell, calling an ambulance was more important." Giving up, he holstered his gun and took out his phone to call 911.

"No, dad, look, that won't...no."

"It's a little late to worry about a gunshot wound being reported by the hospital to the cops, Stiles," he yelled in exasperation and put the phone to his ear. "Yeah, I need..."

Before he could complete the sentence, Stiles did something John never would have expected. He knocked it out of his hand. Father and son stared at each other in shock until, from the bed, came a pained groan and Stiles spun around to go back over to Hale. The bloody towel had slipped off the wound and it was bleeding sluggishly, but, it looked...infected. Black lines starred out from it.

"What the fuck is that?" 

"Dad, please," Stiles begged, voice pained as he sat next to Derek and grabbed a clean towel. "I can't...not now...just...I have to help him."

John saw the desperation on Stiles' face, but his attention was on Derek, who was looking at his son as if he was the world. The hand on his uninjured side rose to cup Stiles' neck, bringing him down, and for a second, John thought they were going to kiss, but then the older man whispered something that made Stiles' shoulders slump as he shook his head.

"Yes," Derek growled--growled? And, what the fuck was wrong with his eyes? "Until Isaac and Boyd get back with the bullet, there's nothing you can do for me. It's time to tell your father."

"You're not my Alpha," Stiles replied petulantly but with an underlying relief, and John felt like drawing his gun again because Hale's eyes in his pale, unshaven face, were red, and not red because they were bloodshot or swollen.

And he growled again.

Stiles huffed. "Fine. Don't bleed all over my bed again. Star Wars sheets don't come cheap." Rising from the bed, he turned to John and sighed. "Okay, I guess I should explain some stuff."

"He's going to bleed out."

"He's really not." 

For some reason, maybe because he was finally going to get answers, John let it go and followed his son from the room and back downstairs where the incriminating bloody water remained. Stiles broke off for the kitchen and came back with paper towels to mop up the puddle then frowned at the slight stain. "I'll bleach it later. And get the spots on the stairs."

"How used to doing this are you?" All of a sudden John was tired, exhausted actually, and he wasn't completely certain he wanted an answer to that question or all of the ones he had.

But, Stiles was squaring his shoulders and seemed resigned to give them to him, as he replied, "Too often. Come on dad, I'll get you a drink. You're going to need it and, hopefully by the time you reach the complete disbelief stage, Isaac and Boyd will be here with proof."

"Proof of what? Is this a gang, Stiles?" He hoped it was that simple, but he was really afraid it wasn't, and a part of him wanted to stomp back up the stairs and shoot Derek Hale in the head.

"Sort of. We call it a pack."

John trailed his son back into the kitchen and, while his kid poured him a shot of whiskey, slumped into a chair at the table and waited to finally learn the truth.

End


End file.
